Aftermath: Past and Present
by Randiro Ellenath
Summary: This story is more than a novelization; it's a synthesis of movies, movie-comics, and speculation, with a dash of G1. The characters are explored in greater detail, as are events; plot holes and general stupidity have been cut.
1. Left Bookend: All Hands on Deck

**Author's Blab:** _Hey guys. *waves to the TF fandom*_

_I've heard that composers sometimes get melodies stuck in their heads, and they can't get rid of them until they take the time to compose whatever piece is rolling around their brains. This sketch is something like that. There didn't seem to be any real reason not to upload it, so I have. It's far from perfect, but I know that if I spend a lot of time editing things, I never upload them._

_I have seen the new Transformers movie three times now, likely to be four tonight. I suppose that, were I a hardcore fan, I would hate the movie; I still have this niggling irritation with all these humans in my movie about a war between giant alien robots, but I've mostly gotten over it. As it is, these movies are a big roller coaster ride to me: loud, dumb, and Dr. Seuss level, but a whole lot of fun and awesome. I have trouble getting through either movie without thinking, "Holy crap, they made a Transformers movie! :O :D" which I usually follow up with something along the lines of "And it is made of awesome and win and happiness!"_

_(Not really. Happiness is Wint-O-Green Lifesavers.)_

_At any rate, this takes place during the very end of the movie. There are _**_spoilers_**_, but not egregious ones; read at your own discretion. If a bunch of people are like "OMG CONTINUE" then I'll probably do so. Or if I feel like it, which is not out of the realm of possibility. I've been intending to novelize the first movie for ages anyway; I have this inexplicable urge to weave these movies into the existing continuity._

_And so, without further ado, allow me to present:_

Aftermath: Past and Present

_A Transformers Fanfic by Randiro Ellenath_

The aircraft carrier was steady under Sam's feet. The seas were not particularly rough, but it was in the middle of the Atlantic and Sam had been on the open ocean just enough to find the ship's lack of movement disconcerting. _Maybe this is what a cruise ship is like_, he mused. _I don't think I'd like it._

It was probably a good thing, though. Sam was having enough trouble standing as it was; his bandaged hand rested a little too hard on the striped hood of Bumblebee. He was on just enough painkillers to feel whoozy, but not enough to be either delerious or numb to the burns that still covered his chest, arm, neck, face....

Bumblebee was a silent, immutable, immovable presence. He neither gave nor needed reason to be here when the other Autobots had gone; he guessed that the soldiers understood why he could not let Sam out of his sight right now. Right now, he was ready to catch Sam if he staggered, dive in after him if he fell overboard. He knew Sam knew it, and he knew Sam still felt nagging guilt, but if it meant that the two of them were together, then nothing else mattered.

Excepting Bumblebee, the injured Autobots--that is to say, all but one--had been airlifted back to the NEST island base, along with the larger debris from the battle. The dead were still being counted, and Bumblebee imagined that the humans were still combing the battlefield for every last scrap of Autobot and Decepticon.

The only uninjured Autobot sat across the carrier in his truck form. He was a brooding presence in Sam's mind, a little piece of seascape that he could not remove from his awareness.

A few days ago, it would have bothered him. Even yesterday, he could tell that Optimus Prime was giving him space, for when they spoke again, it would be outside the heat of battle, and they would have to let out their awkwardness and guilt and apologies and thanks.

But just now, standing in the bow of the aircraft carrier, Sam was content. He didn't know what the future held, and for once, that was all right. He was happy to just rest a hand on a yellow hood--as though the bond between them needed strengthening--and listen to the gentle hum of his bemused parents and baffled roommate; Mikaela was with them, but though Sam could feel her eyes on him, he did not turn. Academically, he knew he would have to go back inside soon, out of the brisk wind and sea-spray, but no one had yet dared approach the Autobot guardian or the boy who had saved the world twice now.

Well, this time it had been rather more indirect, but no less real.

Under Sam's bandaged fingers, Bumblebee moved. Sam half turned, hearing the sound of Optimus Prime transforming, then the heavy grind of his feet against the deck. Sam swallowed in a dry throat, wondering if he were ready for this.

"Bee," he began, but even before he continued, Bumblebee withdrew, and Sam put his other hand in his pocket.

Optimus Prime was just behind him, and Sam straightened his back subconsiously. Bumblebee had pulled in behind his parents and friends, and there was too much between them for anyone to hear the words about to be said.

But as the Autobot captain came to rest a few short feet from Sam, the boy could not help but continue smiling. He glanced to the side as steel feet settled on concrete, and his imagination supplied him with the memory of those same feet ripping up I-5 and the Los Angeles River's bed. The asphalt had buckled and torn under his feet in the night, and he and Mikaela had been sorely put just to hold on, and, accustomed as they were to images of slow giants, Optimus Prime moved just a little too fast as he braced himself under the bridge--_Easy, you two--_and Mikaela's grip had been just a little too--it only took a moment, just a moment to _slip--_

--and the helicopter blades like a weedwhacker as he scrabbled to find her hand and she gripped a handful of his sleeve, and the fear, and sweaty chrome under his fingers one second, and the next-- air--

--and Bumblebee far too far away one moment, the panic and terror and despair, and then--

The catch, the _impact, _the horrible sound of Bumblebee skidding over the dry riverbed, sparks... it was like something out of a movie, only it was real, it was real, it was oh so real--

The capture, Sector Seven, the All-Spark and Megatron, the desparate mission and blood and dirt and casualties and Sam perched on the edge of an aging church, trying to hold onto the seams of an old statue of an angel that was all that stood between him and Megatron, the All-Spark poised above the long drop to defeat, barely held in the damp grip of a boy, resisting words of temptation and evil with nothing but the delicate but oh-so-strong ties of fidelity and courage, and then--

--certain death--

--and saved this time by Optimus Prime.

Sam could not remember what he had said then, in that moment, to Megatron. In the last week and a half, he had often tried to remember, but he had been so full of fear and adrenaline and fierce loyalty, burning so bright in those vivid snapshot slow-motion moments of dirt and sweat and danger and death, that whatever he had said survived only in the memories of Megatron and the robot standing beside him on the deck of a ship that did not rock.

So Sam smiled at the ocean, and everything was right. None of the awkwardness or guilt mattered. No apologies were required, and they had already been given anyway. This was where he belonged--he was like Batman: his ordinary life was a mere front--what mattered was that, yes, he was an ambassador to aliens, a comrade of soldiers, a hand of fate.

_This is and always has been your destiny..._ the words of the Primes trailed over his mind, slowly uncoiling in response to his thoughts.

"Thank you, Sam, for saving my life."

Still smiling his small smile, Sam looked at the deck, then up at Optimus Prime.

"You're welcome," he said.

There was no awkwardness. There was no strangeness, and that in itself ought to have been strange, but Sam liked this place too much to try to force himself to be awkward with the idea of trading life-debts with a giant alien robot. He would never again refuse Optimus when he needed him, and he had been a fool to do so the first time.

That refusal was where this most recent adventure, bloodbath, battle, quest, had begun.

_No,_ he thought. _It began the day I found the shard of the All-Spark in my Doomsday Shirt._

Or had it begun even before that?--the day he begged his history teacher for an A and, his half of the bargain fulfilled, met his father and driven to the lot of a man named Bobby Bolivia, where he first saw an aged yellow Camaro and fell in love with him for his racing stripes.

In many ways, that day in the car lot was the day that Sam Witwicky had been born.

_So. Let's set the Way-Back Machine for...._


	2. Part 1, Chapter 1: Take It from the Top

**Sup, Transfans? Behold the Ridiculously Long Note:**_ I'm not really sure what I meant by "a bunch" of people asking me to continue, but here's the next installment. It covers the prologue comic and some speculation. Most of the next chapter will also be comic/speculation._

_Fun Fact: In the first draft, all the dialogue had a one-to-one relationship with the official comic. Then I realized that said dialogue was absolutely terrible. Seriously, it's some of the worst dialogue I've ever read; maybe comic books have different standards than prose? (I didn't change Optimus's, though. He's Optimus Prime. He could say "Jigglypuff, I choose you!" and it would be dramatic.) Anyway, I hope this is better. o.o _

_To Clarify: I do have an idea for a post-RotF plot, but this fic is something of a novelization of the movies, hopefully filling in plot holes and cutting out idiocy. However, I will include a __**lot**__ more detail, which I will try to draw from the existing canon as much as possible. So, we'll see more Megatron-beating-up-Starscream, more devious Decepticon pow-wows, more Autobot time, more Autobots, more missions, more memories, and most of all more exploration of the minds of the characters._

_What this means for you is that I am going to be slow at first. I came late to the Transformers party, so I have a lot of catching up to do. The movie characters have distinct personalities, which I'm going to try to capture, but analysis takes time._

_To __**Back That Reiner Up**__: Assuming I understood your question, Wheelie wasn't on the deck in the movie. Bumblebee's not there either, but I __**really**__ thought he should have been, so I changed it. There are a lot of things that I think they would have done if they'd had more money for CGI, but in this case I think it was a simple matter of getting permission to put a car on the deck of an aircraft carrier. _

_A lot of things are under-utilized in the movies, though. [Spoilers] Did you know Jolt is in RotF? I didn't even notice him until the second viewing. He is in six scenes and fourteen shots. He has no lines. That's under-utilization at its best, man. Why'd they even put him in there? Then there's Sideswipe, with three lines, and Arcee, with two. They're not even __**good**__ lines. (I'm also a little irritated that, rather than using one of ten thousand canon Decepticons, or even making a new one, they instead snatched Silverstreak, made him into an Audi, turned him evil, then killed him with Sideswipe's sheer badassery. 'Course, then there's Prowl!Barricade... or is it Barricade!Prowl? Prowlicade? DeceptiProwl? ...Actually, I can totally see Prowl going Decepticon.)_

_**Warnings**: Rating has been increased now that I'm going to continue. This is not an empty gesture; recall the number of torture scenes, if you please. In addition, there will be spoilers for every part of both movies, and I don't think I'm going to be able to censor talking about the second movie in my notes, so be warned._

_**Disclaimer**: I make no claims of ownership of any part of the Transformers franchise. Any benefit I receive from this fanfic will not be monetary in nature. Fanfiction is written by fans, for fans, and we do it because we love the copyright holders. Don't be hatin'._

_Hours: 11._

_Drafts: 9. ...I told you I edit obsessively._

_-  
_

Take It from the Top

_Valor is a gift. Those having it never know for sure if they have it till the test comes. And those having it in one test never know for sure if they will have it when the next test comes. _

_--_Carl Sandburg

_-  
_

Really, the pain wasn't so bad.

Pieces of his body broke and dragged against each other, awakening an agony wholly new to him, but somewhere... somewhere beneath this huge expanse of _sensation, _Bumblebee felt something new uncoil inside him, lift its head, and fill him with defiance.

It gave a steely glint to his eye as he stared Megatron in the face and said, "I don't know. I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to, so I'm I afraid your threats mean nothing."

"_Threats?" _grated Megatron. "What need have _I_ of _threats?" _He blasted Bumblebee's arm at point-blank range, and the bright pain caused Bumblebee's senses to blank out.

Bumblebee had never been a good soldier. He was new to this—they all were—but war did not come naturally to him. The others adjusted and ran ahead, while Bumblebee was left behind, unable to catch up to the killer instinct that everyone else had already learned.

No, he was not a good soldier. He hated war, he hated it—a part of him just wanted to _end_ it, win or lose. He was not brave. He did the tasks before him with the industry that had made him successful in peace-time, but he did not do them with any particular passion or relish. He felt no rage or hate, only a sort of restless sadness.

Megatron paused in his ministrations, and Bumblebee grunted as his senses reasserted themselves. A quick diagnostic revealed that, curiously, his arm was actually still attached. He listened absently; Megatron was indulging in his customary egotistical blathering.

Well. There was only one thing left to do.

Suspended there in the half-collapsed underground complex, wrapped with chain and cord, Bumblebee activated the last-ditch device Optimus had given him, the remote killswitch for the machinery holding back the launch.

"What—" said Megatron as the ground quaked, tearing the last of the ceiling down around them. He let go of Bumblebee, turning to watch the blue streak that flashed into the sky. "The Allspark...."

"Prime, you amazing fool," he growled to himself, insulted. "Even now, you underestimate me. All I have to do is transform to catch the Allspark before it enters the wormhole, and now I know where it is."

Bumblebee only had to buy a few seconds. Just a few more seconds, and the Allspark would enter the Alkaris Anomaly, teleporting it to a random location in the galaxy. Something, anything... he set his jaw and created a feedback loop in his holomatter emitter.

"Not on my watch," he said.

Megatron turned back in time to see a flash of bright blue eyes, then the stunning blast of light as Bumblebee's emitter overloaded. His visual sensors temporarily impaired, he cursed the young Autobot. When he turned his eyes back to the sky, the Allspark was gone.

_"You!"_ he whirled on Bumblebee. "You've cost me the Allspark!"

Long fingers wrenched the last pieces from Bumblebee's arm, and the glare of electrical blue discharge accompanied his shout of pain.

Temerariously, he said, "Then—then my work here is done. The Allspark is finally beyond your reach."

Megatron seized him by the throat, and suddenly, incongruously, Bumblebee was overcome with memories of this entity, what—who—he had once been... Lord Protector, just, strong—

"For now, perhaps," said Megatron, leaning uncomfortably close. The illusion faded. "But..."

The pressure on his throat increased, and Bumblebee struggled as he felt his metal stress to the breaking point.

"...this small victory of yours..."

Closing his fist, he shattered Bumblebee's throat in a shower of sparks and grating metal, cutting off the Autobot's strangled cry.

"Shall never be reported."

The Decepticon leader did not loosen his grip; he continued crushing the shards deeper and deeper into his victim's neck. They screeched and crunched over each other, awakening the most exquisite pain that Bumblebee had ever experienced.

Bumblebee was not a good soldier. He was afraid, in that moment, for his own life. He was not like Optimus Prime; he was not brave. He merely completed the tasks set before him.

"It seems I must do this the hard way," mused Megatron, then reminded the dying Autobot, "And though it may take longer, the result will be the same. On the day I claim the Allspark as my own, all of Cyberton will fall, and the universe itself will tremble!"

Bumblebee blacked out, and Megatron tossed his body to the side like so much trash. This—_insect_—had cost him precious time. His quick, decisive victory, ruined. Foolish boy. He would find it; the inevitable was merely delayed. Signaling to his Decepticons, he transformed and took to the sky.

-----------

In the blank space that replaced his consciousness, Bumblebee remembered.

A deep baritone tumbled from from the light around him.

_"None of our lives matter. The Allspark is all. With the Allspark, new life can arise, whether here or elsewhere."_

_"...Elsewhere?"_

The light drew back and looked at him carefully.

_"Only a trusted few know this, but preparations are underway to send the Allspark into deep space. Better that than to allow Lord Megatron to possess it... to corrupt it._

_"You must do anything you can to give us the time we need to make this happen. Anything. Remember, as long as there is hope, there is life!"_

Memory shifted into memory, and he said into the darkness, _"I've... I've got nothing to say to you traitors."_

_"Leave us!" _shouted the dark nexus. A long pause, his bonds too tight to escape, then silence, alone with this dark one that drew ever closer to his face.

_"We have much to discuss, you and I..." _it said, taking his chin.

The vision changed, and once again Bumblebee walked in the cold nightfall, that calm before the storm as they crouched in a trench in the middle of Tyger Pax, where Megatron was not supposed to guess that they had hidden the Allspark with a small team of Autobots. Optimus, Jazz, and the rest were fighting in Simfur, a distraction, taking a beating by all reports.

Quiet words, ready weapons, sunset; enclosing darkness, tension, the first shot. Light and heat, the faces of his friends lit by weapons fire, battle cries, his shout—_"Incoming! Go! Go!"_—Explosion, the concussive blast, stunned, and then: _"Everyone's head still attached?"_

_"Nng... only just," _said Ratchet, shifting in the rubble. _"Looks like they're playing for keeps."_

_"Doesn't feel like they're playing at all," _grumbled Arcee, taking cover and charging her laser. _"How did it end up the six of us against the world, anyway?"_

_"Why not retreat? There's nothing in Tyger Pax worth defending," _said Inferno. _ "Unless... there's something you're not telling us?"_

A pause, then a wide, dark room.

_"Just tell me one thing: What we're doing here, does it makes a difference?" _echoed the voice of Arcee, trusting Bumblebee as he bade them train their weapons on the roof above them.

_"It does,"_ he had said then, unable to shake the tiny voice that whispered, _I hope._

Hope... the Allspark was gone. Cybertron was dying.

When Bumblebee's processor rebooted, he saw a gray blur of moving ceiling, heard the quiet voices of his remaining comrades—the six of them, his unit, who hadn't had any idea that they were not mere decoys.

No. It was five now. Dreadwing had torn out Inferno's Spark before his very eyes.

Bumblebee could hear the heavy tread of Hound as he took point, ever watchful. Somewhere behind, his sensors picked up echoes of Mirage invisibly guarding the rear.

"Heroic," Arcee was saying as she wheeled him along on the makeshift stretcher. "Delayed Lord Megatron long enough..."

"...nearly lost his life in the process..." came the subdued words of Ratchet at his side.

A hero? No. Bumblebee tried to speak, but the shards of his vocal unit grated together painfully, and he emitted no more than a strange whirring noise.

Ratchet leaned into his field of vision. "Bumblebee, don't try to speak. Your vocal unit is shattered beyond repair."

Beyond... repair?

Ratchet continued, explaining something about how it was charred too close to his Spark to repair safely, how it had actually damaged his Spark and had nearly killed him, but Bumblebee felt a sharp twinge of loss and regret. He felt guilty for feeling it—had not others given their very lives to this war?—but all the same frantic denial peaked inside him, then subsided.

Scars. These were proud battle scars. Others had given their lives; Bumblebee would give this.

The others continued talking, lauding Bumblebee's courage, while Ratchet worked on his arm. His eyes carefully pricked Bumblebee's face: the boy was quiet. He did not try to move or speak, though the latter was now beyond his reach. It concerned him that Bumblebee did not seem to care what he had done, or what he had lost in doing so.

Bumblebee had promise as a leader; all of them had seen it in him. Optimus had acknowledged it by trusting him with this, the most critical of missions. In a time when only Optimus, Jazz, and Ironhide knew the location of the Allspark, it was Bumblebee they charged with its protection, entrusting him with the guardianship of the fulcrum of the whole war.

If only Bumblebee could see this in himself, but he was young, so young....

For his part, Bumblebee ran a diagnostic on his vocal unit, and he found that Ratchet was right. He listened to the tense silence of the working Autobot mechanic, and he heard the unspoken words that rang in the air: _You will never speak again_.

So. Megatron had been right. There would be no report of this battle.

It was hard to feel anything. Questions, worries, regrets crowded in, banged on the doors of his consciousness: Had he done the right thing? Had he doomed Cybertron? Had he done enough? Was Megatron right—had he merely dragged out the inevitable?

He was no hero; he felt vaguely guilty as the others pieced together what had happened, exaggerating his role in the matter. He wished he had the courage to fight, the strength to destroy Megatron, as Optimus Prime would have done. He wished he had tossed out some clever, biting, brave quip at the last moment. He wished he had come up with a better plan than collapsing the roof on themselves to take out the Decepticons—which hadn't even worked.

Instead, he engaged in some ridiculous game of cosmic Keep-Away. He had discharged his duty, nothing more.

Somewhere beneath it all, a tiny part of him thought that maybe, just maybe, they were right about him. Maybe he was a hero, maybe he was brave, maybe he _had_ done the right thing....

-----------

Some days later, as Bumblebee attended the Autobot Council, his self-doubt had faded into a sort of hard, frank determination. Eyes were upon him: pity, admiration, respect, expectation. He nodded to those who acknowledged him, crossing the room to take his place with the Command.

This unending war had wrought change upon them all, and it had at last touched Bumblebee with its twisting transfiguration. No anger, no hate, only an unbending desire to _win._

As he approached his place in the circle, he saw Ironhide give him a calculating look, then move from his place at Optimus's left hand. The whole circle went quiet as he stepped back and to the left, taking Bumblebee's customary place.

Not long ago, Bumblebee would have hesitated or refused this honor, however temporary, but here, now, with the eyes of the Autobots on him, he lifted his chin and came to stand at the left hand of Optimus Prime, who nodded at him as an equal.

He had probably always been an equal, but Bumblebee felt that he had finally earned his place among these august leaders. No more did he hold himself apart, watching from the outside; he was one of them now, committed to this war, living in the inner circle.

"Welcome, honored comrades," said Optimus Prime, opening the meeting and drawing the Autobots' attention to himself. "We have sacrificed much for this war, and it seems that we have sacrificed the final piece. For those of you who don't know, we have launched the Allspark into space."

There was an unsurprised rumble and general shifting of bodies in response to this pronouncement.

_We?_ thought Bumblebee. _It was I. It was my responsibility._

Optimus stepped forward to expound, staring deep into the eyes of each of his Autobots. Feeling their doubt, he brought them back to the beginning, reminding them what they fought for. "Before time began, there was the Allspark. We know not where it comes from, only that it has the power to create worlds and fill them with life.

"That is how our race was born. For a time, we lived in harmony, but like all great power, some wanted it for good... and others for evil.

"And so the war began.

"This war, which has ravaged our planet until it consumed our hearts, and the Cube... lost to the far reaches of space. We shall scatter across the galaxy to find it, our only hope to rebuild our home. We shall search every star, every world. We can, we will, we _must_ find it before Megatron. This is our last and only hope to end the war," Optimus said, then paused. "I know that I have asked much of you all, but we must give still more. Who will search for the Allspark?"

There was a long moment of contemplative silence. Breaking it, Bumblebee drew everyone's attention by gesturing to himself.

"Bumblebee," said Optimus, looking like he wanted to object, but instead he nodded and returned his attention to the ring. "Who will join him?"

A slow rumble built into a chorus of "I." A few elected to stay on Cybertron for a variety of purposes: espionage, sabotage, research; the rest shouldered this burden together.

The meeting was short. The Autobots scattered to the winds, and in the long emptiness of space, Bumblebee saw none of his kind for millenia at a time.

Every so often, they would meet. To do so was dangerous, so such meetings generally consisted of a subdued exchange of itineraries, a speech by Optimus Prime, and Ratchet tinkering with Bumblebee's voice. More and more time passed between each gathering, and fewer Autobots came to each. It was hard, not knowing their fates: were they out of range, incapacitated, hiding, captured, dead?

Worse than that was the knowledge that there were those who did not come because they had given up. With each meeting, hope drooped ever lower, drifting ever further beyond the reach of their outstretched fingertips. Megatron may have vanished early in the chase, but it brought them no closer to the Allspark.

The last meeting had waned the lowest yet: not even a dozen had come. Bumblebee watched as their grim determination slowly subsided into listless despair, and he knew that still fewer would gather the next time they were called. Even Optimus Prime was wearing down; his speech sounded tired and halfhearted. Still, Bumblebee would return until he was the last one left: he had caused this, and he persevered out of guilt, hope, loneliness, loyalty, camaraderie.

That had been centuries ago. Now, in orbit around an undiscovered planet, Bumblebee felt a sudden peak of elation.

Purely by chance, he had stumbled upon a trail of familiar energy; he had recognized it instantly, and for the first time in a long time, he fully engaged his rocket boosters to chase it.

Megatron had been here, long ago. Hot on the scent, Bumblebee pursued until he came into the view of this new planet, where he sensed it, sensed it, sensed a presence, a presence he had not felt since...

The night he had lost his voice.

-

**Also Overly Long Endnote: **_More dashes than Emily Dickinson! More ellipses than Virginia Woolf! More italics than Aldus Manutius ever intended!  
_

_As far as I know, overloading a holomatter emitter actually causes a massive jolt of electricity. I have no idea what is happening in that panel in the comic, so I went with a flash of light, and this seemed like a plausible way to go about creating one. I also don't know that it's called an "emitter." It could be a capacitor, a module, a matrix, a unit, a disk.... Clearly I have no idea what I'm talking about._

_Also: In the comic, what Megatron said was "this small, _**_pyrrhic_**_ victory of yours." If anyone can tell me what the heck that's supposed to mean, I'd be grateful. He's probably not talking about poetry or dancing, so the Greek mythology definition makes the most sense... except it's a reference to a victory at a very high cost. Um, Megs, only one person died in that whole battle... and knowing Tranformers, it's entirely possible that Inferno escaped practically undamaged. Maybe he's talking about the loss of the Allspark...? Because Megatron doesn't strike me as much of a poet._

_Though that would be funny. He and Optimus could totally have a poetry jam. Optimus would write like... this terrible emo poetry that he thinks is groundbreaking and beautiful. Megatron's would actually be pretty good. _

_Leave me alone._


End file.
